


Kick It

by furo



Category: Original Work
Genre: Extract from a roleplay, F/M, Friends Making Out, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, Kissing, Light Dom/sub, Making Out, Mdom if you really squint your eyes, Mentions of Cancer, Roleplay, Self-Indulgent, Totally irrelevant, out of context
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 13:51:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19378009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furo/pseuds/furo
Summary: An extract from a roleplay I've been carrying out with a friend over at RPNation; original story and characters. Two friends get frisky in the privacy of a dim-lit room at a wannabe-kickback house party.





	Kick It

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY so, I'm an avid reader of this site, and even though writing is my thing, this is my first time posting here. 
> 
> I'm aware that you, as a reader, have no reason to be emotionally engaged with the characters or the events, and you won't understand at all who they are, or what's even happening. Even knowing this, I still chose to post this little extract here. If you care at all, you might be wondering why, and I'll tell you. 
> 
> I've been writing seriously for about six years now, and I rarely ever posted any of it, mostly because I felt I didn't have any original or fandom-based interesting enough to put out there. It is rather odd that this out-of-context passage is what I decide to be my first post here, but well, I'm actually kinda proud of how this turned out. I'm a sucker for interesting way of writing romantic/spicy scenes, and I think I may have managed a little bit of that here, so here it is. 
> 
> NOW ONTO WHAT REALLY MATTERS: feedback means the world to me. I've always been a big, annoying critic (or i like to think i am) of literature, including fanworks or whatever it is, so for anyone who'd be kind enough to read and leave a little comment, I'm all ears for whatever constructive criticism you might have! My writing is still in need of some thorough practice, so any help in bettering myself is greatly appreciated! <3
> 
> If you really got this far and are still willing to read this spicy piece of nothing special, I hope you enjoy!

[. . .] The hallway upstairs was vacant, and it offered a much more peaceful ambiance than the party downstairs, without colorful lights and food scattered around, though the music was still a dull pulse through the floor and walls. She made sure to count the doors, as per Maggie’s warning, and slowly opened the door.

A warm, dim light enveloped the room, deriving from a couple of modern sleek lamps lining the underside of the walls, dimmer even than the blue downstairs. The room appeared to be some sort of home office, with two desks, one in each corner, and a sizeable bookshelf occupying most part of one wall. Decorations were sparse and humble, with potted plants and refined frames around diplomas and certificates pinned to the wall, or poised on shelves.

To her right, closer to the door, was what seemed to be a small lounging area, with a two-seater sofa and a pair of gray bean bags of different shades, all on a large, fuzzy carpet. Several pieces of clothing had been thrown onto the couch, and as she approached to search for Maggie’s, Florence was almost scared when she noticed someone laid back against one of the bean bags, surprised she hadn’t seen them right away.

In the warm gloom of the room, it took her a second to recognize Breenan’s features, crinkled into an amused smile at the little jump she’d given upon seeing him.

“How didn’t you see me when you came in?” he asked, in a breathy chuckle.

“It’s dark in here,” Florence said, as though exasperated by the fact.

She sifted through the other coats and jackets, then pulled at the feel of a fluffy sleeve and dropped the fabric into her arms, hand digging through the pockets. When Maggie had said ‘handful’, Florence could confirm she had meant it—the jacket pocket was heavy with candy. She pulled out two lollipops, stepped over to Breenan, and extended one to him. “Here.”

He accepted it with a quirked brow and a questioning look.

“Maggie told me she had some. They’re sour,” she said. “What are you doing here all by yourself, anyway?”

Breenan stretched his long legs, sprawling across the bean bag, and sounded as if he was hesitating, a short sigh pushing past his lips.

“I think I had a bit too much to drink, thought it’d be best if I cool off for a bit,” he said, although he never once jumbled his words. His tone was weighted by something akin to chagrin.

Florence’s eyes began to slowly adjust to the low light, and she could see him more clearly. His hair, done back as usual, seemed a little more unkempt than when she had seen him earlier.

She popped the blue lollipop into her mouth, and her tongue tingled pleasantly with the sour, sugary flavor of raspberry.

“You look fine,” she reassured, bending down to drop onto the empty bean bag opposite him. “I mean, you’re nothing next to others I saw down there, yikes.”

“Really? I didn’t see anyone falling on their arse or anything,” Breenan said, peeling the wrapper off the candy.

“Oh, I had one doubling over on me just now,” she replied, resting her elbows on her bent knees.

There was a comfortable pause between them. “Did you drink?” he asked her, sounding more curious than anything else.

“Just a little rum, but it was nothing,” said Florence, waving her palm in dismissal. She twirled the lollipop in her mouth with her other hand, suckling the globe of flavor. Breenan bobbed his head in silent reply. Their eyes locked for a second, but she was the first to draw them away. The room was much too placid for the weight of their gazes to meet, lest something heavier permeate the air.

“Hey, I hope this isn’t too out of the blue,” Florence began, bold enough to break the silence, though her tone was kept temperate and tentative. “But how’s your mom?”

After Florence had showed up when school started, the two of them had been hanging out together quite frequently throughout the past two weeks—during and after class—and she had been meaning to ask him every single time, but had remained on her tiptoes about the matter, perhaps owing to the ambiguous aftermath of her ghosting the few people who had extended a hand in friendship. She sincerely wasn’t certain whether it was in her place to ask him, however open and casual he had been with her in regards to the issue back then.

  
It touched Breenan’s heart that she cared.

“You mean my _mum_?” he teased, emphasizing his last word with a heavy dip of his accent. He laughed at Florence’s exaggerated eyeroll.

“She’s doing great, actually,” he said, a smile gracing his lips that he couldn’t contain. There was a brief but loaded piece of silence, yet he was happy to break it. “Still in remission. She’s been getting her monthly tests and everything, and she’s been doing fine for the past several months. She won’t stop bragging about it to her friends back in Manchester—she’s always facetiming them.”

Florence’s smile was wide and genuine, rare as far as Breenan was concerned. “I’m glad to hear that,” she said, fiddling with the lollipop she had pulled out of her mouth.

“Thanks for asking,” he offered, his tone low and affectionate. His gaze softened, patient, waiting to meet hers.

“No problem. I’ve been meaning to ask all week, but I guess I kinda. . . didn’t know how to bring it up,” she admitted, eyes trained on the candy she traded from one hand to another, before she popped it back into her mouth.

“Oh, you don’t have to be shy about it or anything, really,” said Breenan, in earnest. “I told you about it because I trust you, so you don’t have anything to worry about.”

“Well, thanks. . .” Florence mumbled, though on second thought, she didn’t know what she was thanking him for.

The conversation flowed freely between them, imbued with the ease and fondness that was distinct to the connection they had built. They talked for a while; they smiled and laughed and everything was without trouble. Nonetheless, Florence could never shake off the feeling of his eyes—that gaze brewing with something beyond the amicable, but never demanding or brash, embracing her with a warmth she felt too flawed to freely accept. She hated to get ahead of herself, hated to even dare to assume anything outside what was explicitly told and demonstrated; it made her feel foolish and unjust.

There was no missing how his caramel eyes, darkened now by the width of his pupils, every so often fell to the shape of her lips around the raspberry lollipop.

Sometime amid their chat, Florence caught the faint glint of something Breenan was tinkering with inside the pocket of his jeans, and quickly identified the small object.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” she told him.

Breenan raised his eyebrows at the statement, surprised he had been called out. “Not often. Only when I drink,” he said. There was a stir on the set of his broad shoulders as he paused. “Why, can you smell it on me?” He brought a handful of his shirt to his nose and sniffed it.

“No; the lighter,” Florence said, pointing a finger to his pocket where it now poked out. She didn’t pry the subject, though, as he didn’t look like he was proud of the habit.

Soon, the topic from earlier was brought back.

“You know, of the few people who know about my mum, you’re the only one who ever asks about it,” Breenan mused, sounding kind of wistful about it. It brought a pang of hurt to Florence’s chest. She didn’t know what to say at that. “You’re a really good person, Florence.”

  
It may have been a simple sentence, but a wave of relief washed over her. His use of her name made her feel fuzzy and warm, in that signature way of his.

“You are, too.” She settled for that, though it came out rather shy. Once heat had rushed to her cheeks, it didn’t go away. If Breenan had noticed, it had emboldened him.

“This isn’t nearly what I like most about you,” he began, and his voice had dropped an octave, mellow and deeper than she had ever heard it. “But you look gorgeous tonight. Not that you aren’t always.”

No sooner his words were out, hovering in the air, her stomach flipped and knotted into a tight swarm of heat. Every part of her brain ordered she look anywhere else but him. His eyes bored into hers, however, magnetic and inviting, and she couldn’t refuse them. He seemed to enjoy how flustered and mystified she looked to have heard that, in a way that all but amused and invigorated him.  
“You’ve probably already been told,” he pressed on, tone ever softer.

Florence shifted, releasing the tension on her shoulders and lower back, and sunk further in her seat, her hands fit snug between her thighs. She had half a mind to dismiss him, but it seemed her words had long left her for dead. Breenan caught on to the hesitation, and dispelled any qualms.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said, barely above a whisper, and it held a kindness that knew no reservation. “Your red face speaks for itself.”

The brunette perked up in an instant, brows knitting in a look of indignation and silent chiding that cracked up Breenan almost to the point of tears. His laughter was a melodious offering to the serenity of the dim-lit room.

“I love toying with you,” he declared, once his fit of laughter had subsided to the point where he could speak. She knew he meant no guile in what he said.

“Yeah, I can see that,” said Florence, scandalized.

“You don’t look like you hate it, either.” Now he had a smug curve to his lips, shaping his voice as well.

“Oh, shut up.”

They both reached the end of their lollipops around the same time, unsure of what to do with the little white sticks, since there was no trash bin anywhere in sight. Breenan noticed a tinge of blue coating the tip of his finger, and squinted his eyes to get a glimpse of his own tongue.

“My mouth is blue,” he said, sticking out his tongue and angling forward so she could see.

“Yeah,” she confirmed.

In a slow, smooth motion, Breenan leaned out of his seat and entered her space. Florence was startled by the sudden proximity, but barely flinched. A welcoming heat emanated from him; the sandalwood cologne he wore unmistakable, but overpowered by his distinct musk—it invaded her senses. He smelled of an adventurous lust she had never known. His thumb caught the plump of her bottom lip, and gently pressed it down, the rest of his fingers folded under her chin. He leaned closer still. She felt the edge of his thumb ghosting the tip of her tongue.

“Is yours?” he had the gall to ask, the depth of his tone rumbling in his throat.

It was.

The gesture, in its simplicity, was sensuous in a way that no past experience or fiction could ever live up to.

Everything about him, about this moment, about what he was making her feel, made all her blood pulse and flutter under every inch of her skin, nerves alight and attentive. She had never in her entire life been given this much undivided attention, so intimate and warm, whatever the intent, and she didn’t know quite what to do with it. It was rather embarrassing to just sit there, frozen and unassertive.

He was mindful of her silence.

“I hope I’m not being pushy,” he whispered, his eyes searching hers. Any sign of reluctance, he was willing to heed and respect, and he wanted her to know that. “I would hate to do anything you don’t want to.”

Breenan zeroed in on the keen fervor that betrayed Florence’s hazel eyes, and he was glad they had always been the most honest part of her. With ginger movements, he propped himself with one arm around her waist and his other hand on the foamy bulge of the bean bag beside her head. The heat thrumming under her skin was feverish and contagious. The smooth pads of his fingers worked like a hot spell against the exposed skin of her midriff and back.

Her hands found purchase on his arm and chest, discovering a sense of security in knowing she could pull him away at any moment if she so desired. Breenan’s thumb returned to her lip, caressing with a softness akin to reverence, eyes transfixed by the blending of glossy pink and faded raspberry blue. A breath hitched in her throat, delicate yet discernible, as he moved his fingers to trace up her jaw and stroke her hair out of the way. Her expectant gaze skimmed back and forth from his hooded eyes to his lips, slightly apart, mirroring her own.

When he finally closed the space between them, it was nothing more than a grazing touch, an overlapping of their lips against each other, deliberate and calculated on his behalf. He relished in the teasing, the withholding, the provocation. The measured control. It fueled and stoked his desire, and the fulfillment became all the more rewarding. He wanted to show her, to share that bliss with her. It hit a spot within him he didn’t often get to satiate.

It wasn’t until he caught her near-imperceptible effort, the slight tilting forward, the clutching of her hands on the fabric of his sweater, that he kissed her in earnest. Florence found it hard to focus for a moment, what with her heart in her mouth, a fire seizing her insides, twisting and clenching. The faint mint of his aftershave somewhat soothed her ragged breathing.

To whatever sense she turned, Breenan was there, a safeguard all-encompassing, and she knew right then that the way he made her forget about the bitter world was going to prove difficult to leave behind, not unlike an addiction to a drug.

He tasted and savored her restrained longing, buried and ignored for reasons he couldn’t begin to understand, even if they were explained to him. Florence’s lips were shy in their correspondence, but were slowly coaxed by Breenan’s seductive encouragement. The slight trembling in her limbs, however, didn’t go overlooked.

“You don’t have to be nervous,” he spoke after pulling away, in a volume fit for the intimate moment, offering a tender look. She was compelled to look away, overcome by insecurity, but didn’t, though it showed in the crease of her brow.

“I—I know, I just. . . I’ve never. . . done this before,” Florence confessed, voice no more than a croak. Her eyes surveyed his, half-expecting him to have an adverse reaction after what she said.

“You haven’t?” he questioned, though she couldn’t sense an ounce of distaste in it, even if she tried—perhaps disbelief, in any case. Whilst Florence fumbled for a reply, he took to brushing his lips along her cheek, down her jaw and towards her ear. In a brisk sweep of his hand, he removed his glasses and set them down on the carpet beside them. “You’re a natural, then.”

A giggle escaped her in a few exhales, and she could feel his grin into her skin. He found his cue to press closer, bringing her torso flush against his with the hand on her lower back, though careful not to burden her with his weight. She looped one arm around his neck and rested her other hand on his shoulder.

She had once doubted whether it was possible Breenan could somehow become more handsome than he already was, but now that she had been graced with his dashing features unobstructed by the frames of his glasses, any doubts had been instantly dispelled.

There was a familiarity in the feeling of his fingers cradling the back of her neck; this was a common gesture of his, stemming from deep-seated faults he may be too self-assured to realize, but this time, when he wound his fingers into her hair and used them to guide her mouth back to his, it held no guile.

The kiss had lost something in it—maybe its tentative nature, the innocence—and became hungrier, more purposeful and unabashed. When they held each other’s heated gazes, the few times they parted for breath, there was no discomfort, presumably owing to Breenan’s candid and communicative demeanor through it all. Florence doubted for a moment that she would have consented to doing this for the first time with someone who was anything other than that, and she was grateful for his care and patience.

Struck by a burst of intent to show him how she felt, Florence tilted her head and pushed back, putting energy into the locking of their lips, and Breenan found himself pleasantly surprised by her efforts. He parted her lips further, and offered a tantalizing sweep of his tongue to the supple velvet of her lower lip—an invitation, and a request for permission at the same time.

Florence was eager to comply; their tongues met in a slow dance. Breenan massaged and overpowered her with ease, his whole body blazing in delight at the way she shrank down into the seat, keenly receptive of the change in his demeanor, his playfully dominant side. Not shy of overbearing, but only as much as she would allow. His hands prickled with a greedy craving, and he indulged them, exploring the dips and curves of her figure; slim and petite, and likewise plum and full: a delicacy for all palates.

They were forced apart by the need for oxygen, and Breenan drank in the beautiful mixture of her light pants and the dazed expression playing at her flushed face as his hands wandered, kneaded and fondled at his leisure and to his heart’s content. Spurred by her smoldering gaze, one of his hands slipped beneath the hem of her sweatshirt, smoothing past her rib and up the dip of her spine. An embarrassing little sound escaped her before she could stifle it, and Breenan’s brow quirked with interest.

Breenan met her lips in a sweet caress once again, but was soon trailing kisses down to her neck, leaving pink brands on the wake of his lips, as they brushed and sucked at her hot skin, bent on luring more pleasured sounds out of her. He soon found them, hiding in the line of her spine and under the sensitive flesh of her neck. A little ways below and behind her ear, he discovered a spot that made her cry and arch into his touch, and he didn’t plan on relenting.

Florence seemed adamant to choke or smother the noises into the back of her sleeve, and the boy who had his mind set on working her like an instrument was having none of it. Sometime in the middle of it, she figured he might have noted she wasn’t wearing a bra—his fingers had reached up to her shoulder blades in their wanderlust—and this realization spread a deep red across her face. Breenan felt this warmth as she buried it into the crook of his neck, in an endearing attempt to hide the embarrassment. He flinched a bit in surprise, but smiled into her hair, rather confused by the act.

The whole reality of what had transpired came crashing down on her like an avalanche, coiling her gut taut and bringing a jitter to her legs again. They had kissed for longer than they had talked. Distraught questions seeped in, like little whispers no longer suffocated by youthful abandon, the ones that were always there to ruin every good thing.

Now without the distraction of Breenan’s lush lips and hands everywhere, she could discern the feeling of a bulge pressing against the inside of her knee, and it nearly scared the wits out of her. On second thought, in light of how respectful and accommodating he had been all throughout, she might have realized the sudden unease was unfounded, but her use of reason was too slow to catch up at the moment.

“Are you okay?” he rasped, leaned close to her ear.

The anxious brunette nodded with a shallow sigh, not quite meeting Breenan’s gentle eyes. She narrowed the space between them with her arms around his neck until their noses touched, and he rested his forehead against hers. They stayed like that for a few silent moments.

“I think I should. . . go back downstairs, with Maggie and all, you know. . .” Florence spoke, and kicked herself for the feeble excuse. She lightly pushed at his shoulders, and Breenan sat back on his haunches.

The world turned on its axis as he flipped them over in one swift motion, so she now sat on his thighs and was held there by his hands perched on her hips. The way Breenan squeezed at her and instinctively brought her back down to him spoke of something he had in his mind but felt it wasn’t in his place to say. His hands smoothed down her back and curled in the waves of her hair, the tenderness in their movements that proved he had cooled off. The wisps of his breath were refreshing against her flushed skin, and graze of his lips on her cheeks and ear had begun to tickle, so Florence had to tear herself away.

A soft, wistful twinkle glazed over his dark eyes as he gazed up at her from where his head rested on the edge of the bean bag.  
“Was it good for you?” asked Breenan, hopeful.

“It was great,” she said, a warm smile curving her lips, which were now swollen from his loving attention. “I hope I. . . did okay, too. . .” she muttered, in a sheepish grumble.

“You were lovely,” he said, smiling back, his fingers pulling a few strands behind her ear. “I’d love to do it again.”

The blunt weight of his statement clutched her chest in a vice, and by way of elusion she began to rise to her feet, disguising it as a casual departure. “Alright, I’m going back down,” she announced, trying her best soothing smile.

Before she could make for the door, Breenan slowly pulled at her arm so she would bend down to where he was; he cupped her face and left one last soft smooch to her lips, a content hum low in his throat.

With her hand on the doorknob, Florence stopped before stepping out of the home office, glancing back at him over her shoulder. “Aren’t you coming down?”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” he said.

“’Kay, see you around then,” and with that, she headed downstairs.

Every step Florence hopped down was a dip lower and lower into a pit of guilt and shame of a kind she had never experienced before. She had made out with a friend, a classmate she had to see on a daily basis. Her friends were downstairs, dancing the night away, and she had gone out of her way and Frenched with the dude.

_Is it gonna be weird between us now? What if he goes and tells everyone that I just made out with him? Would he do that? If Maggie finds out, she’s never gonna let me live it down. Holy fucking shit, if Hassen finds out, my head’s gonna roll, for sure. He’ll call me a slut and he’ll kill me on the spot. What am I gonna do, lie to them? Hide it? How do I do that? I can’t do that! Oh God, everyone’s gonna know and I’m gonna be the—_

Before her racing thoughts could get any deadlier, she caught sight of Maggie, Jess and Margot sitting on one of the living room sofas, laughing it up with drinks in hand. Florence’s feet stumbled backwards, almost tripping over themselves, and she bolted to the nearest bathroom down the hallway, searching through the doors.

Once she found one, she slammed the door behind her and braced her hands on the counter, eyes like headlights boring into their reflection. A sigh shot out of her, long like she’d been storing a decade’s worth of air in her lungs. Her legs were noodles.

Little shimmers of her lip gloss were strewn around her mouth, so she drenched her fingers under the tap water and rinsed them out with her hand. There still were the rosy nips dotting the sides of her neck, for which she couldn’t come up with an immediate solution, so she settled for parting her hair at the back and draping it around the sides so they stayed unseen for the most part. She had faith that the dim blue lights would help even it out, but perhaps it was wishful thinking.

There weren’t many people dancing now, the music having fallen to a slower house tune, so Florence was able to make a straight line towards her friends, finding them where she had just seen them. She hoped with a passion that they wouldn’t make a scene out of it.

“Well, look who pulled up,” said Maggie, sloshing around the contents of her cup. “Did you get lost on your way back?” she asked in jest, a suspicious smile pulling her lips as she sipped her drink. She scooted over to make room so Florence could sit on the arm of the sofa.

“Yeah, what took so long?” Jess piped up, her eyebrows brought together in a frown.

“Oh, I accidentally went into the second on the left, where the two people were ‘boning’, as you said,” Florence quipped, tilting her head towards Maggie. “Thought I might as well join ‘em, y’know.” She shrugged.

“Nice, so how was that?” Jess asked, looking amused by the jest.

“Pretty okay,” she replied, then pretended to shift around uncomfortably on her seat. “Though I. . . think I might have something stuck inside me, not sure.”

Maggie let out a hearty laugh and leaned her head on Florence’s shoulder, where she then hummed along to the song resonating around the room, though it didn’t last long, because Florence was back on her feet, as her dry mouth was starting to become a bother.

“Where are you going now?” Maggie demanded.

“Well, someone’s gotta get this out of me,” the brunette retorted, with mock exasperation. “I’m gonna go get some water.” [. . .]


End file.
